


Drenched

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8106166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: In which Sherlock is soaking wet and recruits John to strip him off his trousers in a tiny changing cubicle because of reasons.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly little something I had lying around on my harddrive and thought I'd present to you as we all wait for me to finish any of the five other Sherlock fanfics I'm currently working on. Enjoy!

John found he really didn't like public pools. Seeing as his recent experience with them was limited to being covered in Semtex, having snipers aiming at him and Sherlock, and fearing for both of their lives, he decided that no one could really blame him for being reluctant when it came to entering such buildings after hours.

  
And yet, here he was again, surrounded by members of Scotland Yard, the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance visible through the large glass panels that made up an entire wall of the pool in question.

  
Not that John paid them any attention, except maybe to watch the way the red and blue light was reflected by the water, drawing his gaze without his permission even as he berated his mad flatmate for yet another stupid stunt.

  
"-can't believe you did that! Really, Sherlock, sometimes I question your right to call yourself a genius. I suppose I should be glad you took off your coat first. And whatever for? A stupid flash drive! Some genius you are."

  
Sherlock bore his ranting with as much composure as might be expected, frequently rolling his eyes but unable to get a word in edgewise. One reason for that was John's refusal to pause in his ranting for longer than it took to take a quick breath, and the other was that Sherlock found it surprisingly difficult to talk while his teeth were chattering so loudly he feared a visit to a dentist might be in order soon.

  
The consulting detective was once again observed wearing a bright orange shock blanket, though the only shock he could possibly be said to be in was of the hypothermic kind and the flimsy orange insult to serious blankets could hardly be considered properly used on someone who was currently drenched to his skin.

  
So far he had not gotten the chance to inform John that the flash drive in question was of the water-resistant kind and the data stored on it had thus been saved from otherwise certain destruction. Which was largely thanks to his quick reaction, consisting of shedding his coat and jumping head-first into the cold water the moment the thief had thrown it in there.

  
The young man was currently being deposited in one of the waiting police cars by a rather amused looking Sally Donovan. Having been one of the first to arrive at the scene, she had gotten a nice eyeful of drenched consulting detective before someone had kindly offered him the blanket. Naturally, the fabric did little to conceal the way his wet clothes clung to his body, and instead its bright colour only served to draw more attention to his miserable state.

  
Finally John's lecture trailed off, though that was more due to the fact that he had realized Sherlock had stopped paying attention than to his having run out of things to say.

  
Shaking his head in resignation, John left Sherlock to his own thoughts and promptly found his gaze once again drawn to the way the flashing lights were reflected in the drops of water on his best friend's neck and in his hair. Thanks to one of the medics having handed Sherlock a towel, his hair at least was more damp than wet, the thoroughly mussed strands regaining their usual curly form in a way that made John's fingers itch with the irrational need to gently tug on them to see if they would spring back into place.

  
He resolutely turned his back on the detective, unwilling to give in to the urge or - even worse - to have Sherlock somehow deduce it.

  
John was almost grateful to see a black car rolling to a halt just outside the perimeter set up by the police.

  
"Looks like our ride home has arrived," he noted.

  
Sherlock sniffed dismissively and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

  
"That's not going to help while you're still wet to the bones," John told him.

  
"U-unless that ph-phrase is used in r-reference to a-an actual skelet-tt-ton, I can assure you th-that being wet to the b-bones is quite impossible. S-surely as a m-medical man you sh-should know that, J-John."

  
"That speech would have sounded so much better if your teeth weren't threatening to fall out of your mouth," he told his flatmate, trying hard to hide his smile as he followed Sherlock out of the pool area and across the parking lot to Mycroft's car.

  
The British Government looked about as happy as could be expected of someone who had found cause to drive to a public pool in the middle of the night because their brother had spontaneously decided to go swimming whilst fully clothed.

  
Mycroft, with all the superior breeding one might expect of the son of an Earl in Victorian times rather than a man in modern London, could hardly decide which part of the situation he considered most outrageous: The fact that an expensive suit had been subjected to chlorinated water, or that it had happened at a public pool instead of a private one where such eccentricities may be excused. The knowledge that his younger brother had been wearing said suit as it came into prolonged contact with the water hardly bore thinking of.

  
"Well, well, well, brother," he said. "I see you once again gave up every pretense of proper decorum in order to make as much of a spectacle of yourself as you possibly could under the circumstances."

  
Sherlock only deigned to give him a withering glare in reply that Mycroft pretended not to notice.

  
"I took the liberty of bringing you some of your clothes so you might get changed," the older man continued, his gaze lingering on his brother's soaked slacks and shirt. "I don't want you to get the upholstery of the car all wet and you really should get out of these clothes before you catch pneumonia, as I am sure John has already told you. Multiple times, most likely."

  
John merely rolled his eyes and accepted the bundle of perfectly folded clothes Mycroft's ever-present assistant handed him. Privately, he thought it was the first time he had seen Anthea without her Blackberry in hand. He made a mental note to mark the day on the calendar once they got home. If nothing else, Sherlock would find it funny.

  
At present, his flatmate did not seem inclined to find anything funny, however. Instead, he stared at Mycroft with his eyes narrowed. "Must I remind you that all this -" he made a wide gesture with his arms to encompass the pool, the flash drive and his own state - "is the direct result of you asking me to retrieve the stolen data? That's the third time you have come to me with such a matter, maybe you should improve your security systems to prevent further occurrences of intelligence theft."

  
"Your comment has been noted," Mycroft informed him tersely. "Now get changed before you really do catch pneumonia. I hardly think either of you would enjoy you being sick and confined to your bed for any length of time." He glanced at the shock blanket as if it had personally offended him. "And get rid of that monstrosity while you're at it."

  
"Come on, we'll find one of the cubicles for you to change in," John said, dragging Sherlock with him, his clothes firmly pressed to his chest. "Preferably far enough away from everyone to keep the comments to a minimum, alright?"

  
Sherlock merely grunted but allowed him to lead the way. And if John noticed some of the officers on site taking a second or even third look at his flatmate's firm backside, perfectly outlined as it was by his wet trousers, he pretended not to see and did his best not to glare at them. He could hardly fault them for staring when he himself had been struggling to keep his eyes on Sherlock's face while they had been talking earlier.

  
"Give me that blanket," he ordered once they arrived at the changing cubicles. "And get in there."

  
Sherlock glowered at him but shrugged off the shock blanket as he was told, accepting his clothes and locking himself inside the cubicle. John tried and failed to erase the image of his flatmate's transparent shirt clinging to his chest from his mind and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in exhaustion. It had been a long day and an even longer night, he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep since Sherlock had roused him at five in the morning and he was both tired and hungry. And maybe also a bit horny, which was not at all helped by the sound of wet clothing being peeled off a body and Sherlock's occasional grunts as he struggled to get out of the clingy material.

  
John actually had to bite his lip to stop from saying anything but when Sherlock cursed and - from the sounds of it - stumbled and crashed against one of the walls, he couldn't stop himself. "Need help in there?"

  
"Depends," Sherlock huffed. "Do you have a pair of scissors with you?"

  
"Nope. I'm afraid I left them at home. For some weird reason, I didn't expect us to require scissors at a public pool."

  
"Shame, they really would have come in quite handy right now," Sherlock said. "These trousers are incredibly tight."

  
"You don't say," John muttered, feeling not the least bit sympathetic. After all, he was the one who constantly had to struggle to keep his eyes above Sherlock's waistline even when his trousers were not soaking wet and clinging to his body like a second skin.

  
"What was that?," Sherlock asked.

  
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

  
Sherlock snorted. "Don't tax yourself too much, John." There was a bang and another curse. "Who on earth designed these things? And for whom? I can't even bend over in here without banging my head."

  
John came very close to having to bite his fist as he struggled not to imagine a scenario that involved Sherlock bending over whilst half-naked. It was a losing battle.

  
There was a sigh from inside. "This isn't working. John, get in here."

  
"What?," John spluttered. "If you can barely move in there, how do you expect this to be any easier with two of us crammed inside?"

  
"You're smaller than I am, you will fit and if you crouch on the floor you can help me get out of these. I can't reach that far down."

  
"Do you really think now is a good time to comment on my size, Sherlock?"

  
"I was merely stating the facts. Now stop protesting and get in here," came the annoyed reply and Sherlock pulled open the door.

  
John quickly looked around to make sure none of the Yarders were around to pay them any attention before ducking into the small cubicle.

  
It took a bit of manoeuvring to close the door and they finally ended up with Sherlock pressed into the opposite corner and John all but standing on the detective's feet and sucking in his stomach. Finally, the door was closed and John moved away, realising too late that his clothes were now damp where his back and legs had been pressed against Sherlock.

  
He turned around, almost hitting his knee on the tiny bench someone had seen fit to squeeze into the cubicle, and came face to chest with his flatmate. A chest that was quite beautifully exposed because Sherlock had at least already taken off his wet jacket and shirt, both of which lay in a heap on the floor. The cold air on his damp skin had caused his nipples to pucker and John had to force himself to direct his gaze elsewhere and stop himself from licking his lips.

  
"This really is a bit cramped," he observed, hoping he sounded neutral.

  
"Well spotted," Sherlock grumbled. "Now, if you'd be so kind...?"

  
John rolled his eyes. "The things I do for you, Sherlock..."

  
He lowered himself until he was crouching in front of the other man, his back pressed against the door, his face inches from Sherlock's thighs. The detective had already unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and succeeded in pulling them down at least part of the way, but John immediately recognised the problem. Wet pants were best taken off by carefully pulling at the hem to prevent the fabric from bunching up and getting even more difficult to peel away from the skin.

  
John sternly reminded himself that he had already seen Sherlock almost completely naked before, if only for a short time and not quite this close, and that there really was no reason to make a fuss about this.

  
Reaching out with both hands, he took hold of the fabric on both of Sherlock's thighs and shoved it about an inch down before pulling along the rest of the trouser leg and finally the hem so the material wouldn't bunch up. The same process was repeated until he had worked the sogging trousers down to Sherlock's knees, all the while trying to stay focused on his task.

  
"Christ, if anyone could see us now," he said lowly, trying to lighten up the slightly tense atmosphere with a joke. "We'd never hear the end of it."

  
"Wouldn't we?," Sherlock asked, sounding puzzled. "Why?"

  
"Seriously?," John asked back, not sure whether to laugh or groan in exasperation. "Two men locked in a dressing cubicle, one of them with his trousers 'round his ankles and the other on his knees in front of him? You seriously can't imagine how that might look to people?"

  
There were several beats of silence.

  
"Oh," Sherlock made. "I ... see."

  
He shifted his weight, a movement that could hardly escape John's notice this close to his legs, and John realized that the topic made his friend uncomfortable. Right. Moving on.

  
"Okay, I'm almost done here," he said, working to sound as reassuring as possible as he shoved the fabric the rest of the way down. Thankfully, Sherlock's calves were slender enough for his trousers to move much more easily here.

 

"All right, up," John ordered, patting Sherlock's right calf in order to get him to lift his foot so he could pull the trousers all the way off.

 

Sherlock didn't move.

  
"Sherlock, I need you to lift your foot. Now, if you please," John sighed.

  
Still no reaction.

  
John lifted his head, intending to figure out what had distracted Sherlock so much or to shake him out of his mind palace if necessary. But as he did, his gaze travelled up the full length of the other man's body, along those incredibly long legs, over his black pants and ... stopped.

  
Because those pants, black as sin and more expensive than everything John was currently wearing put together, were currently being tented by a quite impressive erection.

  
The moment John realised what he was staring at, he tore his gaze away, swallowing hard.

  
"Sorry," he muttered, turning his attention back to the relative safety of Sherlock's trousers around his ankles. "It happens all the time," he said gently, patting his friend's leg again. "Now, can you raise your foot so we can get this done?"

  
Sherlock didn't respond except by shivering ever so slightly. "Sherlock?"

  
John looked up at him again, consciously avoiding his crotch and making an effort to focus on his face. "Everything all right?"

  
Sherlock stared back at him, his eyes glassy and a bit unfocused. John blinked and slapped his leg harder. "Hey, Earth to Sherlock! Snap out of it, will you?"

  
The detective did, refocusing his eyes with a blink and staring down at John. His pupils were huge.

  
John found himself staring back, unable to break the intense connection as Sherlock's gaze grew heated.

  
Then, finally, Sherlock seemed to come back to himself fully and raised his leg almost absently, as if he hadn't even noticed his body's reaction. Or maybe he simply didn't care.

  
Either way, John pulled his trousers off along with his shoes and socks, first on one foot, then the other, before reaching for the pile of dry clothes Mycroft had brought and helping his friend redress. Socks, trousers, shoes... By some unspoken agreement, he didn't even suggest that Sherlock take off his wet pants as well, though he definitely should do that the moment they were back at Baker Street. For now, this would do.

  
John dragged the trousers up until Sherlock was able to reach them without doing himself further injury, steadily avoiding to let his gaze linger where it had no place being.

  
And during the entire time, Sherlock didn't say a word. Instead, he just stared at John as if he had never seen him before, eyes huge and cock hard.

  
"Got it from here?," John asked as he stood, dredging up every last bit of his doctor persona to stay professional.

  
Sherlock nodded mutely and John smiled, taking a small step backwards before a collision with the door reminded him that there was no space to back into. "I'll wait outside, then," he said and was just about to turn around and open the door when he remembered Sherlock's discarded clothes. If left to his own devices, the detective would simply leave them there.

  
"Oh, wait, I'll take these with me," John said, crouching again and reaching for the wet lump of clothes on the floor. They had somehow ended up beneath the bench and he had to twist awkwardly to get at them, instinctively leaning against Sherlock's legs to keep his balance.

  
"Got 'em," he announced triumphantly, searching for something to hold on to so he could pull himself up with one arm full of wet clothes and his own raging hard-on. Luckily - or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it - he ended up holding on to Sherlock by curling his free arm around the other man's thighs, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing along his arse.

  
Sherlock let out a gasp that morphed into a moan as John pulled himself up and his head brushed along the still prominent bulge in the detective's pants.

  
"Sorry," John muttered, trying to extricate himself from his flatmate without it becoming obvious that he was in a rather similar state of discomfort. "God, this really is a tight space, isn't it?"

  
He tried very hard not to think of another tight space he would much rather be in right now. Naturally, he failed. However, he was not the only one.

  
"Shut up, John," Sherlock growled and a moment later he had crowed John against the door and was kissing him for all he was worth.

 

For one surprised second, John could do nothing at all as his mind tried to catch up with this most unexpected turn of events. He knew how easy it was to let your thoughts wander, to end up hard and wanting at the mental image the word "blowjob" represented, no matter how unspoken it remained, but what you did in such a situation was to either turn your thoughts in another direction or get some peace and quiet and have a wank. You certainly didn't press the person closest to you against a door and proceed to tongue-fuck their mouth.

 

Which, he registered blearily, was exactly what Sherlock was currently doing. _Oh, god._

  
That was about the time John recovered enough of his cognitive function to grab hold of Sherlock and return the kiss. They could both write it up as a spontaneous lack of judgement on both sides if they so desired, but right now all he really wanted was to figure out why they hadn't done this sooner and then - as he pulled Sherlock close enough to press his erection against his thigh and feel his flatmate's answering hardness against his belly - how quickly they could move this farther along.

  
Sherlock's thoughts seemed to go in a similar direction for his hands snuck beneath John's jumper just as John contemplated the merits of dropping the bundle of wet clothes so he might have both hands free.

  
In the midst of this train of thought came the gruff and completely unwanted voice of DI Greg Lestrade.

  
"Sherlock? John? Are you there? There's a posh bloke outside who seems to be waiting for you."

  
They both froze, mouths still locked together, listening intently for the sound of Lestrade's footsteps approaching and then hesitating before he called their names again. Neither of them replied and John found himself actually holding his breath.

  
Finally, Lestrade turned to leave. "They're not back here, either. Probably somewhere further inside the building. This place is a maze," they heard him call and everything was silent again.

  
Slowly, reluctantly, Sherlock drew back.

  
"Well," John gasped. "That was close."

  
The detective nodded.

  
"Best not to make them wait any longer," John continued.

  
"Best not," Sherlock agreed, finally pulling up his trousers fully and grimacing as he tried to adjust himself in his pants before pulling up the zip and doing up the button. John wordlessly handed him his shirt, his heart still beating at twice its normal rate and desire still curling in his core.

  
As he was about to open the door, John paused, steeled himself and decided to risk it.

  
"Uh, Sherlock?"

  
"Yes John?"

  
"You're still wearing your wet pants," John told him slowly. "You might want to get changed out of those the moment we get home. Just so you don't actually end up catching pneumonia."

  
Several seconds passed as Sherlock worked through all the things John had very loudly not said.

  
Then: "And do you think you would be willing to assist me with that? Seeing as you've already had some practice just now."

  
John grinned. "I think that can be arranged."

  
They shared a look of understanding and finally snuck back out, John carrying Sherlock's wet clothes and the detective pausing at one of the deck chairs by the poolside to pick up his coat which he had thrown there before jumping into the water. It felt as if it had been hours ago.

  
Moments later, the two of them joined Mycroft outside, slid into the car without further comment and were dropped off at Baker Street less than twenty minutes later.

  
As Sherlock jumped out of the car and strode towards the door, John found himself being held back.

  
"Do keep an eye on my brother, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said.

  
John turned from Sherlock to his older brother and smiled. "You know what? I think I can safely promise to keep both eyes and my hands on him for quite some time. Cheers."

  
And he got out before Mycroft had a chance to formulate a fitting response.

  
"What was that about?," Sherlock asked as they climbed the steps to 221b together.

  
John shrugged. "Just your brother making sure we'll keep our heads above the water."

  
"Ah." The detective nodded. "Speaking of ... I believe my pants are rather too wet to keep wearing them. If you would be so kind."

  
John's reply came from the bottom of his heart as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him towards his bedroom. "It would be my pleasure."

  
**THE END.**


End file.
